


In The beginning  part 1

by Sandboy28



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Other, descriptions of drug abuse, graphic descriptions of beatings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:38:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2240964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandboy28/pseuds/Sandboy28
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever wonder how Sherlock and Lestrade met? This is non canonical and the ages have been tweaked. Just for fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The beginning  part 1

In The beginning   
Part 1

The rain came down in sheets on London that evening. Greg Lestrade had drawn the lucky straw and was pulling another all-nighter at the station. When the call came in about a disturbance in an alleyway behind Charring Cross station he was out the door with a groan. His car radio was blasting with static and updates. “Yes, yes, you noisy fucker.” He snapped it off and pulled away thinking they could ring him on his mobile if it was that important.   
He’s only been promoted to Detective Inspector a month ago and already the shit was hitting the fan. He had been overseeing an ongoing investigation of prostitution and drug-addled rent boys. Not the most glamorous case but one to keep him quite busy. He couldn’t help feeling for the youngsters who plied that trade. Many of them were barely out of their teens. They were always the victims of vicious pimps and dealers. This would probably be something like that, he mused through the smoke curling up from his cigarette.   
When he arrived on scene there were a handful of street cops and two mobile units. A Detective Constable he knew pretty well was taking statements as the beat cops capped off the dark alleyway. The rain had slackened off just enough to get a good look at the darkened alley. That’s lovely isn’t it? he thought bitterly, pitching the soggy smoke as he approached the scene.   
“Okay, what it is this time and how drunk is she?” He smirked at DS Edwards who regarded him with a flat, unreadable look.   
“We’re not sure. Someone said it’s a male and he may be armed.”   
“I see.” Lestrade breathed, his breath picking up a bit at this bit of intelligence. Might be interesting after all. He thought hopefully. He moved in closer and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. “Give us a torch, will ya?” He reached to take the torch from Edwards and shone it down the alleyway. A bin moved and a trainer-clad, skinny leg shot out as whomever it was slipped on the wet pavement behind the bin. Lestrade’s eyes narrowed. Trainer, eh? It’s a kid I’ll wager.   
He started down the alley slowly, shining the light at the spot indicated. The leg was gone and he could make out a dark head poking just above the bin lid. Whomever it was they were terrified. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Just stay put and I’ll come to you.” A voice came from the bin:   
“No! stay where you are! I have a gun!” A wretched sob accompanied the plea.   
Lestrade, who was father to three sons, all in their teens felt his heart tweak a bit at the voice behind the bin. “It’s alright. I got nothing in my hands, see?” He held his hands out so the young alley-dweller could see that he was unarmed. The boy’s eyes were dark and wide with fear, making look like a wild little animal. “I just want to help you, son.”   
“No!...p…please!” Another wretched sob and the bin shifted as he crammed himself further behind it, trying to make himself as small as he could.   
Lestrade finally made it to the bins and saw the owner of those sobs. He was young. Very young maybe in his early twenties. He was painfully thin and had a long, pasty face which bore several nasty bruises. His large, almond-shaped eyes were filled with terrified tears and his lips quivered.   
“Please…don’t hurt me…” Another sob.   
Lestrade knelt down at his trainer clad feet and smiled.   
“There now. See? I’m not gonna hurt you. Shhhhh, it’s alright now.” The pitiful face relaxed a bit at this and a long arm reached up and cradled his bruised jaw. It must hurt. Lestrade’s heart clenched at the sight of this troubled young soul. “Can you stand, son?” Seconds ticked by and the kid looked at Lestrade, seeming to size him up.   
“Y…you won’t hurt me?” He asked timidly.   
“No, I won’t hurt you. Promise. Now let’s see if you can stand…” He reached out to help him rise. The boy was trembling but he held his hand out for the detective to take it. Lestrade reached out ever so gently and grasped the bony hand and lifting him up. He gasped and collapsed, forcing Lestrade to just pick him up and carry him in his arms. He couldn’t believe how light he was! Like carrying a straw dummy.   
He gently placed the boy into the back of his car and fetched a blanket from the boot to cover him with. He was shaking violently and crying weakly. He cradled his left arm carefully. probably broken Lestrade thought, clenching his jaw angrily. How he would have loved to get his hands of the bastard that had done this!   
* * *   
It was six am by the time the A&E crew finished with the youngster and installed him in a room. Lestrade came in just in time to watch as a couple of sisters finished rigging an IV and making him as comfortable as possible. He wore a hospital gown but it was clear that he hadn’t seen a decent meal by the way it swallowed him up. They had cleaned him up some. His black, curly mop of hair was dry now, framing his poor, battered face and making him look like a pale angel who had fallen off his cloud.   
“Well, look who’s doing better!” Lestrade exclaimed, grinning through the pity that wrenched his heart. The young man looked up, his wide, blue eyes full of a strange mixture of intelligence and innocence. “I thought we might talk a little bit. You up to it?” The boy nodded shyly and lowered his gaze. “What’s your name, son?”   
“Sherlock Holmes.” The boy croaked dryly. “What’s yours?” Those eyes….  
“I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Yard. Can you tell me what happened tonight?’ He smiled warmly as the young man blinked a canopy of dark lashes as if to clear the cobwebs and lifted his gaze. So timid. poor kid. Lestrade thought angrily.   
“I…I tried to buy some cocaine. They beat me up and took my money.” Sherlock stated honestly.   
“How many were there, Sherlock?”   
“Uhm…three I think. They were all bigger than me. They…they said they were going to sick the police…uhm…they took my money…beat me…” Tears began to trickle down his pale face and his azure blue eyes grew huge with terror. Lestrade stopped him, patting him gently on the shoulder, shocked at the boniness of it.   
“There, there. It’s alright, son. Shhhhhh. You’re safe now.”   
Sherlock began to tremble again and he fell onto the pillow, clutching it for dear life. The back of his gown parted and his bony, white back this boy hasn’t seen the sun in a while, criss-crossed with angry, red lash marks peeked through. They went from his shoulders to the tops of his pyjamas. Lestrade gently pulled at the waistband and saw that the marks were especially angry looking on Sherlock’s poor bottom. He wanted to gather him into his arms and hold him but he was afraid to hurt him. Eventually Sherlock fell asleep. Lestrade covered him with the sheet to his neck. He clucked his tongue and snuggled in, fully asleep.   
* * *  
‘What are his injuries?’ Lestrade asked the A&E doctor. The man swiped a hand over his mouth, looking disgusted.   
“He’s twenty-two years old and just at six feet tall and yet he weighs 9 stone. He has track marks down both arms and a few on his upper thigh, what there is of it. Whoever beat him started out by whipping his back and buttocks with something thin, like a belt or strap. He was beaten so severely that the wounds are a centimeter deep. They twisted his left arm so hard it suffered a green stick fracture. He has evidence of prior, severe beatings and a fractured orbital socket. His ribs are cracked on the right side. If I had to guess I’d say he was thrown around like a rag doll whilst someone held his left arm. He is malnourished, dehydrated and severely underweight. Emotionally, he is a real mess. He begged one of the sisters not to hurt him when they brought him in. he begged another to hold him while I examined him. He has regressed due to stress. I have never seen someone so young tortured quite this badly. Whatever monsters did this to him MUST be brought to justice!” The doctor’s hand curled into a fist as he spat the last words out.   
“Does he have a home? Parents?”   
‘He has a brother but he begged me not to ring him. His name is Mycroft Holmes. Ring a bell?”   
The name Mycroft Holmes was well known to Lestrade as a foppish member of the British Secret Service. He had no idea Mycroft had a younger brother. He knew he’d have to ring him but he wanted to get Sherlock’s approval first. He walked back down the corridor to his room.   
Sherlock was curled into a ball on the bed. He looked tiny in the big hospital bed. Someone had tucked a stuffed kangaroo into his arms and his face was peaceful and angelic. He looked all of five years old. Lestrade hadn’t the heart to wake him.   
* * *

“Come on, sweetheart, let us take a look…” One of the sisters was trying in vain to get Sherlock to allow her to check his back and bottom. He was backed into the head of the bed, his eyes wild with fright. Another sister was holding a syringe.   
“Come on, darling. We won’t hurt you…”   
Lestrade came in and went straight to the bed. “Well, look who’s awake!.” Sherlock visibly relaxed at the sight of him. “Here now, what’s all this about?”   
“We need to take a look at his injuries, Detective.”   
Lestrade looked amiably at Sherlock. “It’s okay, matey. Come here.” He drew close and Sherlock flew into his arms, burying his head in Lestrade’s shoulder.   
The sisters looked at one another with relief. Lestrade carefully peeled the gown off him and lay it on the bed. Sherlock’s bruised rib cage gave him a skeletal appearance. He pulled the waist cord on the bottoms and they dropped off, exposing His badly beaten backside. Sherlock trembled but held on as the sisters applied a salve to his wounds. He made small protesting sounds when they hit upon a particularly sore spot. Lestrade held him ever so gently and soothed him as they worked. Sherlock relaxed and let Lestrade redress him.   
One secure in his bed again Sherlock looked expectantly at the sisters. Lestrade prompted him;   
“Say thank you to the sisters, son.” Sherlock shyly looked up at them through his lashes and softly thanked them. They rushed to him and kissed his face, one appearing to tear up.   
“You’re welcome baby. We’ll get you some food.”   
“There, you see? All done and now you get some grub.” Lestrade said companionably. “Feel up to a chat today?” He ventured. Sherlock sighed and nodded.   
‘They’re giving me methadone through my drip.” He offered blandly. They think I’m an addict.” Lestrade’s eyebrows went up at this.   
“Really?” he said carefully.   
Sherlock’s expression became impatient. “Of course they do. They found needle marks up my arms.”   
“Where did they come from then?” Lestrade asked.   
Sherlock regarded him with those deep, intelligent eyes. “The pimp who kidnapped me kept me sedated.” he offered, unblinking. “I was sold to him by another pimp. I was investigating what it was like to be a male prostitute when it all went wrong.”   
Lestrade had to struggle to keep from bursting out laughing. This was in no way funny but Sherlock’s dry, overly honest delivery was just too much.   
“How long since your wife left you?” Sherlock suddenly offered.   
Lestrade’s facial expression went from shocked to confused. ‘Wife? My wife? How the hell did you know that?”   
Sherlock looked down at his lap and spoke: ‘The same way I know you’ve been living in your office and sleeping on a couch. You’ve lost weight in the past month. Your collar is too large and your shirt is hanging off of you. You have circles under your eyes from not getting adequate rest and your posture indicates back pain from sleeping on a couch.” Sherlock blinked and nodded his head slightly as if to say he was finished.   
Lestrade exhaled sharply. ‘Well, you’re right. You are bloody right about all of it. That’s amazing.” Sherlock’s head came up at the praise.   
“You really think so?” He said, sounding very young again.   
“Yes. Can you apply those amazing observational skills to telling me who hurt you?”   
“Yes. But you have to promise to protect me.”   
Sherlock’s last statement was so nakedly childlike Lestrade found himself overcome with a protective feeling. He genuinely liked this intelligent, mysterious boy. “of course I will. Now gimme the lowdown.”   
Sherlock spoke quickly and succinctly. Lestrade had a deuced hard time keeping up as he wrote everything down. Sherlock gave him names, addresses and descriptions. His breakfast tray arrived and he dove into it immediately, wolfing the food down. The sister who brought the tray sighed.   
“Poor lamb. Somebody starved him nearly to death.” She favoured him with a maternal smile. “Eat that all up, darling and if you like I’ll bring more.” Sherlock, his mouth full of oatmeal nodded appreciatively. Lestrade chuckled and threw a handful of napkins at him.   
* * *  
To be continued…


End file.
